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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952556">Best Interests at Heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanluluto/pseuds/lanluluto'>lanluluto</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Science, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Medical Inaccuracies, Scientific High Crimes and Misdemeanors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:27:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,084</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanluluto/pseuds/lanluluto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex Rider survived Point Blanc and his murderous clone. Barely one day later, his life falls apart again. Things come to a head when Yassen Gregorovich intervenes. <i>Written for Day 1 of AR Febuwhump 2021. Takes place immediately after the last scene in the TV series.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>AR Febuwhump 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well, this has been a wild three week ride! This is written for the Day 1 Febuwhump prompt (not mentioning it here for potential spoiler but viewable at febuwhump.tumblr.com and the fic end notes). </p><p>Huge thanks to Lil_Lupin for organizing AR Fandom Febuwhump, my fellow word sprinters, as well as my two beta readers corolune (sonnet) and cthulhu_is_chaotic_good. They really straightened out this story in record time with their painstaking comments and line edits; I cannot thank them enough!  </p><p>Also, I fell headfirst into this fandom because of pongnosis' The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. It was so good, it whupped the writer's block out of me. (I kept telling myself, if pongnosis can write a 531k magnum opus, I can finish one darn story.) Thank You Pongs for your gift to fandom!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jack, Alex, and Tom were at their favorite pizza shop when Tom’s phone buzzed.</p><p>Alex and Tom had long since polished off their orders, and Jack was finishing up her last slice. They’d gotten a table by the window in the sunshine, people bustling past on the street with their shopping, and Alex felt warm and normal for the first time in ages. </p><p>Tom looked up from his phone. “Dylan’s getting the lads together for a football game later. You in?” </p><p>Alex noticed Jack looking at him. It took him a second to realize that she and Tom had the exact same expression on their faces: holding-their-breath hopeful. </p><p>Alex didn’t blame them. After returning from France, he had been a total shut-in; hadn’t wanted to be touched, hadn’t wanted to talk. Even now, part of him wanted to slink back to bed and curl up with the curtains drawn. He squashed the urge down with effort. </p><p>“Sure, why not,” he said. “Down at the school pitch?” </p><p>“At Holloway, actually. Dylan has a friend who goes there. We’re going to form up a squad from each school.” </p><p>“Alright. As long as I don’t have to goaltend.” </p><p>“Mate, we’re not trying to lose,” Tom said. Alex chucked a napkin at him and Jack laughed. </p><p>He could tell Jack was in good spirits because she paid the bill without protest. When they got home, she beelined for the closet where his kit had been collecting dust for a month.  </p><p>“You’re lucky I washed your socks,” she said from inside, tossing him a shin pad over her shoulder. “You got them so muddy last time. I thought about just getting rid of them.” </p><p>“That’s the only pair that fits me right now.” It felt like his feet were growing at twice the rate as his height. His growth spurt wasn’t exactly inconsequential, either. </p><p>Jack handed him his jersey, shorts, and the offending soccer socks - now bleached clean - to him in a neat stack. “Well, try not to get them too muddy again, or else I’m going to teach you how the washing machine works.” </p><p>“I know how it works,” he protested as he headed to his room to change.  </p><p>"Don't tempt me. I'll put you through your paces,” she called after him. </p><p>Alex changed on autopilot, not looking at his bed. He would be too tempted to throw himself under the covers, even though outside the sun was still shining brightly, rare for an autumn day in London. The sense of unease, that something wasn’t right, mixed up with exhaustion and sadness - <i> Ian’s dead, he’s not coming back, you almost died two weeks ago too </i>- was constantly hovering at the edge of his mind, threatening to engulf him. </p><p>At Point Blanc, he’d excused the feelings as justified by the dangerous surroundings. Home - the mission finished, MI6 sodded off for all intents and purposes - he still didn’t feel... okay. </p><p>After throwing on workout trousers and a training jacket over his football kit, Alex trotted back downstairs. Jack was waiting for him with his water bottle. He shot her a grateful look and slipped it into his pack alongside his football boots.  </p><p>Jack followed him to the entryway and hovered as he tied on his trainers. When he straightened up, she drew him suddenly into a fierce hug. Startled, he froze, then folded his arms around her. </p><p>“Have fun. Stay safe,” Jack said muffled into his shoulder, before stepping back. “Are you coming home for dinner?”  </p><p>“Yeah.” He thought it over. “Actually, Tom will probably want to grab a kebab.” </p><p>“Well, wear your vest if you’re going to bike in the dark.” </p><p>He grabbed his reflective vest off the hook by the door. “Cheers,” he said and went out, buckling on his bike helmet. </p><p>It was a flat, easy ride to the soccer pitch at Holloway Academy. He spotted Tom, Jahid, Dylan, and Ned already on the field, standing with a group of boys he didn’t know who must have been from Holloway. </p><p>Surprisingly, there were people milling in the open-air stands as well. He squinted and thought he could make out...Ayisha? Her long purple braids were swept over one shoulder, and she was leaning over her knees, chatting with her friends. Steph included, he noted. </p><p>“Rider! Tom told us you were coming, but I said I’d believe it when I see it.” Dylan clapped Alex on the back.</p><p>“Alex, mate,” Jahid said. “Tom told us you’re not suspended. How did you wiggle your way out of that one? You got into a fight in front of the entire school!” </p><p>“Self-defense.” The lie he'd agreed with MI6 came smoothly. “He mistook me for some other bloke and just attacked me out of nowhere. A total nutter.” </p><p>“Wild! Do you know what school he went to?” </p><p>“No. I don’t even know his name. The police showed up and took care of it.” He and Tom exchanged a bland, knowing look over the others’ heads. The “police”, better known as Agent Crawley and Mrs. Jones. Not to mention the mystery sniper.  </p><p>Tom cleared his throat. “Hey now Dylan, who else we waiting for?” </p><p>“The twins should be here any minute now. Simon and Andy are on the way too. Simon will probably goalkeep for us. What do you want to play today? Striker, Alex?” </p><p>He glanced at Tom. “Center midfielder, if that’s okay.” </p><p>“Yeah, of course. Tom, striker?” </p><p>Tom looked relieved. He could play midfield, but running the length of the pitch for an entire game was not his cup of tea. </p><p>Alex had also caught him shooting furtive glances at the stands. Striker was a flashier position; no doubt he wanted to score a goal in front of Steph. </p><p>Alex had come to terms about Ayisha. Going back to school after the dance, Alex had forced himself to apologize for whatever his clone had said to her - he still had no idea what - and awkwardly passed off his rudeness as a mental breakdown in the wake of his uncle’s death.</p><p>Ayisha had graciously accepted his apology. Still, he’d realized as he stood in front of her that his infatuation had been snuffed out by everything that had happened. The Alex who’d crushed on her, who’d snuck out to a party just to have a word with her, had died at Point Blanc. </p><p>Eventually, the rest of their classmates arrived. The sun was lower in the sky but still extended some tendrils of warmth; sunset was in a little more than an hour. Tom and the other forwards gathered at the center circle. Alex picked up his knees restlessly, eyes on the ball. His heart rate quickened in anticipation. </p><p>Tom and Ned won the coin toss. At kickoff Ned passed to Tom, who began to dribble the ball upfield. Alex took off after them. </p><p>Fifteen minutes in, running from one end of the pitch to the other, Alex felt a weird twinge in his chest. Breathing hard, he pressed his hand to the spot briefly and pushed through it, running towards goal to help the fullbacks defend against a corner kick. </p><p>The teams were evenly matched. Ten minutes later, the score was still 0-0. Tom suddenly intercepted the ball off a bad pass from one of Holloway’s players. Tom’s one touch wasn’t enough to control the ball - it spun out across the field, directly in front of Alex and the Holloway midfielder marking him. Alex put on a burst of speed and sprinted full-on towards the ball. </p><p>Suddenly he was seized by breathtaking pain. His heart was being <i>squeezed.</i> Alex choked and clutched at his chest. Still mid-run, his feet tangled beneath him and he hit the ground, hard. The impact lanced through his shoulder. </p><p>Rolling onto his back, Alex’s neck arched and his head jerked against the ground, his eyes shut tight. He tried to scream but no sound came out. In the background, he could hear shouts. Then the pain overtook him entirely and the world went black. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>Mrs. Jones stepped out of Royal Brompton Hospital, phone in hand. She pressed a key for the auto-dial and held it up to her ear. </p><p>A gruff voice picked up after the first ring. “This is Alan Blunt.” </p><p>Mrs. Jones didn’t bother with introductions. She knew Alan had been waiting on this call. </p><p>“Alex hasn’t woken yet but is in stable condition. I’ve spoken to his doctor and he’s made a preliminary diagnosis.”  </p><p>“Well?” </p><p>“Myocarditis and heart arrhythmia.” </p><p>“A weak heart? That makes no sense. He’s had perfect physicals every year.” </p><p>“The physician’s best guess is that it was triggered by recent trauma and shock.” Mrs. Jones paused. “It could also be genetic. I had Crawley check for hereditary factors. Helen’s father died of a heart attack at forty-six.”  </p><p>“What are the odds of foul play? We can’t discount anything with Scorpia involved.” </p><p>“Unlikely. At the hospital in France, we ordered a full bloodwork panel. The labs picked up on traces of the truth serum, sleep barbiturates, but no other unusual markers. They ran additional bloodwork today and there was nothing out of the ordinary, beyond what you’d expect from a weakened heart.” Mrs. Jones was silent for a moment. “Alan, we should have never sent him on that mission. Alex was emotionally compromised from Ian Rider’s death. This broke him.” </p><p>“It was necessary.” Alan’s voice lacked inflection. “Without Alex, we would have never found out about Scorpia’s involvement. Every minute gained obtaining that intel will save lives. What’s the likelihood that he recovers full bodily fitness?”  </p><p>“Based on the usual path for this diagnosis, less than 20%.” </p><p>She let that sink in for both her and Alan. Young, healthy, and athletic Alex - Ian’s nephew and John’s son - was an invalid with a chronic condition, all the odds for a full recovery stacked against him. The Department’s ambitions for him, obliterated.  </p><p>“A damned shame,” Alan finally bit out. “Pay an appropriate lump sum into his trust and close his file.” </p><p>“Do you want to see him?” </p><p>“Do you think he wants to see us? He’s a teenager, with a teenager’s temper. Send a gift basket, Tulip, until his head cools. Keep tabs on him through Jack Starbright.” </p><p>“Yes, sir.” </p><p>Mrs Jones hailed a cab and pointed it towards Royal and General Bank. She felt odd and she tried to assess her emotions. Guilt. Grief. But also mingled in was a feeling of...relief. She was glad that Alex was no longer in Alan’s arsenal, to be commandeered and put to use in Her Majesty’s name. </p><p>Mrs. Jones looked out the car window, thinking about what awaited her when she returned to the office. She would have to withdraw the <i>Rider, A.</i> file from <i>Active duty.</i> The new mission had been added to his folio just that day. </p><p>Earlier, in the black Audi, she and Alan had watched Alex leaving his house in revived spirits with Jack and Tom - had watched them go into the pizza shop - before winding through the streets back to HQ. Mrs. Jones had been tasked with writing Alex into the mission file and scheduling a debrief for him to be read in.  </p><p>It could have been a lifetime ago. When she got back to her desk, she’d have to remove the mission papers and transfer his personnel file to <i>Medical discharge. </i></p><p>At least, she thought to herself, it wasn’t in the basement filing cabinet, tucked flush against <i>Rider, J.</i> and <i>Rider, I.</i>  </p><p>
  <i>Killed in action. </i>
</p><p>For now, that would have to do.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I will be posting chapters piecemeal throughout today as I resolve my betas' feedback. I promise it will be fully posted by 11:59PM EST on Feb 1. I would love to know what you think in the comments!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After the third cardiac specialist, Alex knew he was dying.</p><p>Every X-ray and MRI showed further signs of deterioration. The specialists were at a loss to explain the progressing severity. They prescribed him a spectrum of drugs, which eased some of the symptoms but never seemed to set him on a path to improvement. His heartbeat was irregular, and he was frequently tired. The teachers knew not to comment now on the occasions when Alex stood up abruptly from his desk and headed for the door. The school nurse kept a clean paper sheet on the pallet in her office for him to collapse onto and rest. </p><p>He had an idea how it would end: a heart attack, the same burst of intense pain that had struck him on the soccer pitch two months ago, except this time, he wouldn’t wake up. </p><p>Given two months to reflect on his impending mortality, he decided that he'd rather go out while exploring the world, rather than waste away in bed. He was planning to leave at the end of term. He would dust off his bucket list and travel while he could still stand. The only reason he hadn’t dropped out yet was so he could spend as much time with Tom and Jack as possible, before he left.  </p><p>On top of everything, he didn’t want to subject Jack to caretaking for him to the end: faking cheerfulness, fretting over his comfort, making detours to other parts of the house to weep and trying to hide it. He wasn’t blind to the fact that she’d given over much of her twenties to raise him. It was too much to expect her to watch him die, too. </p><p>All of which brought him to the end-of-term school ski trip to Switzerland. </p><p>“I want to go,” he had said firmly, the three of them gathered in the living room. Tom and Jack were agape, citing his heart condition, until he’d explained his post-Christmas plans. </p><p>Before long, both of them had acceded, and both of them had cried. They realized he’d given up on a cure, and it was hopeless to convince him otherwise. Tom promised Jack he would look after Alex on the journey to Switzerland. </p><p>Alex’s last school term ended without fanfare. The next day, after a commercial flight to Zurich and two trains into the heart of the Bernese Oberland, Alex and forty of his classmates arrived at Alpine Meadows Lodge and Resort. It was a traditional Swiss chalet with a rough-hewn dark pine exterior, gabled eaves, and muted yellow lights glowing in scattered windows. </p><p>Luckily, the lodges’ rooms only had single double beds, so all the students got their own. Their chaperone, Mr. Cooper, gathered everyone in the lobby and distributed key packets and breakfast vouchers. It took an interminably long time to get to <i>Rider, Alex. </i> </p><p>Alex headed immediately for the shower when he got to his room, which was dimly lit but cozy. He had eaten a sandwich on the train and already told Tom he planned to skip dinner, too drained to face his classmates.  </p><p>Warm from his shower and dressed in a set of flannel pajamas, he watched some TV until he felt himself nodding off. </p><p>He forced himself into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He'd washed his hair earlier, and the towel was still slung around his neck. After he finished rinsing his mouth, he reopened the bathroom door, rubbing the towel through his damp hair, and stopped short.</p><p>There was someone in the armchair by the bed. A rangy, lined, familiar face, with a scar running down his left cheek.</p><p>In his head echoed the long name in Mrs. Jones’ clipped tones: <i>Yassen Gregorovich. </i></p><p>Before Alex even noticed he was moving, he had retreated up against the wall, covering his back, crouching at the ready with his fists up in front of his chest. The towel sprawled between them on the ground. </p><p>“Alex Rider.” </p><p>Not Alex Friend. So Yassen knew his real name. If he’d tracked him to this Brooklands ski trip and this old chalet, decidedly not a billionaire’s playground, there wasn’t much doubt, but now Alex knew for sure.  </p><p>“Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.” Yassen raised his hands, showing his palms. </p><p>“What do you want?” Alex demanded, not letting up on his fighting stance. </p><p>“It must be alarming to see me here,” Yassen said in measured tones, still not moving. “But in your condition, you shouldn’t strain yourself. Take a deep breath and slow your heart rate. You’re not in any danger.” </p><p>Alex’s heart was racing, pounding in his chest. He had an impression of his sprint up the soccer pitch. It was no use fighting and defending himself if he just triggered himself into another heart attack. </p><p>Alex inhaled and attempted to regain his equilibrium. He didn’t take his eyes off of Yassen. Despite Yassen's claims to the contrary, every instinct in Alex was blaring, warning him of a predator in close proximity.  </p><p>Gradually Alex’s breathing evened, and Yassen broke the silence. “You recognize me,” he said. “Do you know who I am?” </p><p>“You were at Point Blanc. You worked for Greif.” </p><p>Alex paused, hoping Yassen would fill in the gaps, but Yassen just arched an eyebrow, waiting. </p><p>“Your name is Yassen Gregorovich,” Alex finally said. “You’re a person of interest to the Department.” <i>Dangerous</i> was left unuttered. “At Point Blanc, when I was undercover - somehow you knew me, even though I’d never seen you before in my life.” </p><p>Yassen recognized the question for what it was. “Your family name precedes itself. The Rider features are...distinctive.” </p><p>“You knew my uncle? Or my parents?”</p><p>Yassen looked as if he were weighing how to start.</p><p>“Yes. Ian and I have history. Intelligence agencies hire from security companies like my employer when deniability is preferred.” He shrugged. “I was hired to work defensive reconnaissance for Dr. Greif’s operation. My employers withdrew my services when it became clear his operation was compromised. By the time of the collapse, most of our fee had already been paid. He was a client, same as any other, and I have nothing personal against you or MI6.” </p><p>It sounded so bland, so business-like. A mercenary who hadn’t cared that Greif’s plan involved killing Alex’s friends - spoiled, mischievous, and naive, but still teenagers at the end of the day - and replacing them with Nazi clones. Alex didn’t abandon his defensive position. </p><p>“Then why did you follow me here? I’m not involved anymore. I haven’t heard from the Department in months.” Bitterness, unintentional, crept in. </p><p>“I came to talk about your death.” Alex tensed. Yassen’s gaze was calm and direct. “Your coming death, and your options in the face of it. Alex. Did you find the sudden onset of your heart condition strange?”</p><p>He hesitated. Of course he’d found it strange. He had simmered at each medical dead-end. He had struggled with debilitating regret over each memory of strenuous or stressful activity, which pointed glaringly to the work he’d done for MI6. Then abruptly, he realized he didn’t want to waste any more time obsessing over what he couldn’t change. In the end, he’d reached a summary conclusion. </p><p>“Shit happens,” he said, echoing what was in his head.</p><p>A ghost of a smile creased Yassen’s lips. “Yes. But sometimes it has help along the way. Have you heard of Litvinenko? Skripal?” </p><p>The names sounded familiar. Alex searched his memory. Eventually it clicked. “They were Russian dissidents, right? Weren’t they poisoned by the KGB on British soil?” </p><p>Yassen inclined his head. “Traitors to the Russian Federation. The KGB and SVR have a long memory. The two were poisoned, but in ways that were easy to trace back to Russia. Both assassinations - or attempted assassination, in the case of Skripal - caused a significant uproar in the press and helped lead to sanctions by the U.S. and U.K. on Russian entities, which have throttled the Russian economy.</p><p>“As you can imagine, there was a market for something more...discreet. You are aware of Project Gemini at Point Blanc. Baxter and Greif were working on other initiatives, including a drug that would target the heart and attempt to trigger a natural cardiac event. If administered in the right dosage, the target would experience a heart attack or cardiac arrest, but there would be no trace of foul play in the autopsy. It was designed to be undetectable.” </p><p>“That’s what happened to me?” he said, staring at Yassen. Without realizing it, he’d dropped his fists. One hand had gone automatically to his heart, the other was limp by his side. “Greif poisoned me?” </p><p>“Julius poisoned you.” </p><p>“Who?” </p><p>“Julius. The name of the clone surgically altered to resemble you. Named after Julius Caesar,” Yassen said with a tinge of irony. “Before he went under the knife, he was his father’s protege in the lab. He had a hand in the drug’s development, and would know it had to be administered as a powder and inhaled. The alveoli in the lungs are crucial to the delivery mechanism, to ensure it remains undetectable. When he attacked you at your school, he likely found a way to ensure you breathed in the powder.” </p><p>“I don’t remember any powder,” he said. </p><p>“Adrenaline tends to blur recall.” </p><p>Alex suddenly felt lightheaded. He made his way over to the foot of the bed without really seeing where he was going and sat down heavily. </p><p>A shadow moved over him. He felt a gentle touch on the side of his face, tilting his chin up so their eyes met.</p><p>“Alex. I didn’t come here to deliver a death sentence. Greif created the poison, yes. But he also created, effectively, an antidote.” </p><p>The hope that rose in him was so immense, so staggering, he knew that if he hadn’t been sitting he would have crumpled to the floor.  </p><p>“There’s a cure?” He couldn’t keep his voice from wavering.  </p><p>Yassen nodded and released his hold. He circled back to the armchair and sat down facing him. “A cocktail of synthetic enzymes. MI6 found it among Parker Roscoe's things. Parker's clone used it to accelerate the healing of his plastic surgery scars, but if administered to the sternum, the Greifs found that it would also reverse the effects of the drug and heal any myocardial inflammation.” </p><p>“How do I get it? Is it at Point Blanc?” </p><p>“No. Point Blanc was razed to the ground. What you need is in London.”</p><p>“<i>London?</i>” </p><p>“Yes. In a cold lab, underground, at MI6’s scientific headquarters. It happens to be across the street from Royal and General Bank.” </p><p>“So I can - I can just call Mrs. Jones -” </p><p>“You could,” Yassen cut him off. “You could call Jones and deliver yourself to Alan Blunt. Hope that he’ll hand over one of three doses they have in storage. MI6’s scientists have been unsuccessful in re-synthesizing the compound; those are the only doses they possess. Giving you one would represent a significant investment in you, and he would expect a return. Do you understand?” </p><p>It dawned on Alex slowly. “You’re saying he’ll blackmail me. That I’ll have to sign over my life to the Department.” </p><p>Yassen just looked at him, not saying anything, although Alex thought he saw faint approval in his eyes. </p><p>He took a deep breath. Blackmail or not, it didn’t change one crucial fact. “I’ll die without that antidote.” </p><p>“You will. But you might want to consider the hand you’ve been dealt. Julius gave you an unexpected escape route. MI6 has written you off due to your condition. If they take an active role in your convalescence, I doubt you would ever fall off Alan Blunt’s radar.” </p><p>“What are you suggesting?” </p><p>“Let Blunt be your last resort. Get your hands on the antidote yourself.” </p><p>Alex was incredulous. “You think I should break into a government compound right under Alan Blunt’s nose?” </p><p>“You have MI6’s trust. With the right cover story, you should be able to get past the building perimeter.” </p><p>“And once I’m in the building?” </p><p>“Infiltration. Subterfuge. Those qualities can be trained. I trust you’ll be a sufficiently motivated student,” Yassen said dryly.  </p><p>Despite himself, Alex could feel a wild, runaway excitement burgeoning. It was marred by the niggling feeling that something wasn’t right. </p><p> “What do you want from me?” he asked. </p><p>Something flickered in Yassen’s eyes. But just as quickly, it was gone, his expression once again calm and opaque. </p><p>“Rider saved my life once. I owe him a debt. This is what he would have wanted for you. Alive, and free of MI6’s influence.” </p><p>Alex looked at him searchingly. “And I’m sure Ian would appreciate that, from his grave. But that wasn’t my question. What do <i>you</i> want from <i>me</i>?” </p><p>Yassen was poker-faced, and Alex braced for his expression to darken. He was surprised when Yassen smiled instead. </p><p>“Very good, Alex. It's simple. I want you alive, but out of the game. The Greif operation was a considerable nuisance to clean up. You are talented, malleable. If it weren’t for your condition, MI6 would do whatever it took to keep you in their power. I presume they never told you who killed Ian.” </p><p>The sudden about-face left Alex off-kilter. Yassen watched him closely. </p><p>“What do you know about it?” he forced out. </p><p>“Your uncle was in the middle of a joint CIA operation called Varna. He was investigating breaches of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, sanctions violations by the North Koreans and Venezuelans. The warehouse where he died was a hub for their European smuggling operations. The understanding within the underground intelligence community is that he was dispatched by a mole for the North Korean government, working from within MI6. Martin Wilby, who is now dead. </p><p>“MI6 likely didn’t want to admit to you they were internally compromised, especially with the CIA involved. They pride themselves on weeding out insider threats. Your uncle’s death signified their failure. That he happened to be looking into Point Blanc was a convenient excuse for them to play on your curiosity and recruit you, just when they needed a teenage operative the most.”</p><p>Alex stared, numb. At his silence, Yassen said, “A different story than MI6 conveyed, I suspect.” </p><p>“They told me that Point Blanc was their strongest lead, but Greif died before they could finish the interrogation.” He hesitated. “I know Ian was investigating Serenkov and Roscoe. Their names were in his search history. But when I got caught at Point Blanc, Greif and Stellenbosch didn’t even know his name, and he wasn’t in any of their system records.” </p><p>One of the few images he recalled from his drug-addled haze was their stark confusion when he pleaded with them why they had killed his uncle. </p><p>Yassen inclined his head. “MI6 did not pose a threat to the operation until you appeared at the school. A creative stroke on Alan Blunt’s part. We underestimated his lack of boundaries.”   </p><p>Nothing Yassen said contradicted the bits and pieces Alex had about Ian’s death. In some ways, it proved to Alex what he’d suspected all along: the Department didn’t give a shit about him, only what he could do for them. </p><p>Still, Alex’s instincts were prickling. He got the distinct feeling that Yassen wasn’t telling him something.</p><p>“So...what’s next?” he said. “I storm the Department, take the antidote, and tell MI6 to sod off for the rest of my life?” </p><p>Yassen’s lips quirked. “Simply put, yes.” His face turned serious. “With one factor you’ve not yet considered. In your current state, you are unsuited to complete the mission.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“The stress and pressure of this mission will be intense. Your health is weak. Every heartbeat is a threat to you. As it stands, you’d be dead before you stepped foot on Liverpool Street.” Yassen steepled his fingers under his chin. “This assignment is a non-starter unless you can suppress your physiological responses.” </p><p>Alex looked at him, unsure. “You say that like it’s possible.” </p><p>“If you’re willing to take it. A doctor in Geneva is a pioneer of electromagnetic wave therapy. He has developed a method to target and apply electrical pulses to specific neural circuits. If you undergo the treatment, he can temporarily disarm the neural circuit that causes your heartbeat to elevate in response to external stressors. The effects should last for approximately one month.”</p><p>“I won’t have...emotions?” </p><p>“Not quite. The treatment is very precise. It can target your autonomic functions while leaving your rational and emotional cognitive functions alone. You’ll be able to process emotions in response to stimuli, but elevations in your heartrate and flight or fight response won’t be triggered.”  </p><p>“Is this treatment experimental?” Alex asked doubtfully. He didn’t want to fix his heart, elude MI6, and end up as a brain vegetable.  </p><p>“The science is quite old. FDA approved transcranial magnetic stimulation to treat depression in 2008. The approval of additional use cases has been obstructed by ethical concerns, not scientific ones. Medical journals have published quite a volume of research. You’re welcome to read them on the way to Geneva.”  </p><p>It sounded like something out of a science fiction movie set in some distant future: Brain wave manipulation. Severing unwanted instincts and emotions. Something like that was possible today, here and now? </p><p>“What if I say no? That I’d rather go to MI6.” </p><p>Yassen shrugged. “That remains a possibility. If you don’t manage to extract the antidote in time, I’d expect you to take your chances with Blunt.” </p><p>“But if I wanted to go down that route right now…avoid all of this...you’d just let me go?” Alex couldn’t keep the mistrust out of his voice.</p><p>“If you choose to do so, I won't stop you. I would consider my debt to Rider paid. Should we meet in the field again, it will be on reset terms.” He smiled, vaguely shark-like. “If my objectives benefit from eliminating you and I have a clear shot at you again, I’ll take it.” </p><p>Alex’s brow furrowed in confusion before the answer hit him with a startling burst of clarity. It was Yassen who had been up on the roof of Brooklands that night. He had taken the kill shot and eliminated the loose end represented by Julius Greif and the threat to Alex both. That meant Alex had been in his sights - Alex, Tom, Crawley, and Mrs. Jones all - but something had stayed Yassen’s hand. </p><p>The debt he owed to Ian must have been immense. Alex wanted to know what it was, badly, but considering the man before him, Alex instinctively knew Yassen wasn’t going to just tell him. </p><p>Bald lies, and lies of omission. The sinuous, lethal energy underlying the calm demeanor. It reminded him of Wolf and the rest of K-Unit. He remembered crouching beneath the eaves at Point Blanc, listening to Eagle calmly dispatch three guards through her sniper scope. Snuffing out their lives in the span of a few minutes. </p><p>At least the guards were adults, fully aware of the concept of risk and reward. If Yassen had worked for Greif, that meant he’d had no qualms with Greif’s fanatical Nazism, or his willingness to sacrifice teenagers in the fire of his ambitions. </p><p>Still, Yassen had spared Alex on that roof. Even now he was holding to some kind of honour code. Alex was well aware that Yassen could have chosen to let things play out: Alex would be dead within the year of “natural causes.” MI6 would be deprived of him as an asset, none the wiser. </p><p>Alex knew himself enough to recognize when his curiosity was stoked. He wanted to know what was lurking beneath the surface. If he told Yassen no, the man would disappear, they’d be on opposite sides, and he would never get answers. </p><p>Part of him was also still floating in a stream of elated relief, knowing he’d been extended a new lifeline. If things really went to shit, he could still call Mrs. Jones and get the antidote, if he played his cards right. He would contract his youth away to MI6, but he’d be <i>alive.</i> All options were on the table. </p><p>Alex made up his mind. “I’ll go to Geneva. I want to read the medical research on the way there. If it’s not safe, I’m not going through with it. You can drop me at the nearest train station and I’ll find my own way back.” </p><p>Yassen looked at him, a mixture of curiosity and thoughtfulness in his eyes. Then he gave a short, sharp nod. “Acceptable. We leave in fifteen minutes.”</p><p>Alex blinked. “We’re going now?”</p><p>“Even if you undergo the treatment, time is of the essence. There is a chance that your body will defy the expected improvement. The mission will need to begin as soon as you return to London. That leaves me only a week to train you.” </p><p>“How far away are we from Geneva?” </p><p>“About two and a half hours.” </p><p>Alex glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “We’ll get there at three in the morning.” </p><p>“And be back by eight o’clock,” Yassen said calmly. “You can check in with your trip chaperone, and we will get started at noon.”  </p><p>He raked a hand through his hair. “Alright. Let’s go. But I want to tell Tom first,” he said. </p><p>“Tell him what?” </p><p>“He’s expecting to ski together tomorrow. I’m just going to tell him I’ve changed my mind, that I’m skiving off in Geneva.” The lie came easily. If Yassen was luring him away to ambush or kill him, he wanted Tom to know where to go looking. </p><p>“If you wish to protect him, it would be prudent not to mention the mission,” Yassen said. </p><p>“I know. I don’t want to give him false hope that I’m about to magically get better soon.” </p><p>Yassen didn’t interject further, and he didn’t stop Alex when he drew out his phone. </p><p>
  <i>Tom, I’m telling Cooper I’m sick tomorrow. Going to ride the train and sightsee in Geneva since I’ve never been… Cover for me? </i>
</p><p>Tom’s reply came right away. <i>You want company, mate? </i></p><p>No questions asked - he knew about Alex’s bucket list. He silently thanked whatever force in the universe had sent Tom Harris to him as a friend. </p><p>
  <i>I’m alright. Half the reason I want to go is to ride this Golden Pass route. I'll just be looking out the window the whole time, really boring. If you don’t hear from me by 5pm, send the search party</i>
</p><p>
  <i>5pm?? Text me on the hour, you delinquent </i>
</p><p>
  <i>You won’t get much reception on the mountain</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Just text me</i>
</p><p>
  <i>OK. Night</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Night, tourist </i>
</p><p>Yassen didn’t attempt to interfere or hover over the messages. Alex took that as a good sign. He took out some warm clothes from his suitcase, changed in the bathroom, and donned his ski jacket and boots. When he turned around, he saw Yassen waiting by the balcony doors. He also noticed the bed: rumpled sheets, and two pillows stuffed beneath the blankets to approximate a sleeping body.  </p><p>“Is that fooling anyone?” he said dubiously. </p><p>Yassen shrugged. “In case we get delayed. Most people see someone asleep and back out immediately.” </p><p>He opened the balcony door and Alex felt a gust of cold wind. Yassen slipped outside, and Alex followed, pulling the balcony door closed behind him. He saw now how Yassen had made his way inside. His room was on the third floor. There was a thick structural pillar running up the exterior of the resort building with decorative notches in the wood, which doubled as handholds.</p><p>Yassen glanced back at him, tilted his head towards the pillar, and went over the side of the balcony to begin the climb down.  </p><p>Alex hadn’t attempted anything of the sort in months. He ignored his trepidation and pushed forward.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alex made it to the bottom of the pillar, barely. Once his feet touched the ground, he slumped against the wall, winded, and took a moment to catch his breath. Yassen said nothing, just waited. Finally, Alex nodded, and Yassen led him through the resort parking lot to his car, a compact Renault.  </p><p>There was a tablet waiting for Alex on the passenger seat. The tablet was connected to mobile data and there were various medical journal articles already queued up in the reader. Alex spent the first hour reading the prepared articles, then opened up a browser to search for others on his own. </p><p>There was a sinister undertone to the earlier articles from the 1970s. Most of the studies involved patients in U.S. state asylums whose participation seemed less than voluntary. The neuroscience community appeared to have had a breakthrough sometime in 2005, when a study was published showing that electrical stimulation had significantly helped patients with Parkinson’s disease recover some of their motor functions. </p><p>Several of the articles he read were written by a Swiss neuroscientist named Urs Paternoster. Most of his work centered on analyzing electrical activity in the brain to predict habits and patterns of behavior. His other research centered around electrical and magnetic therapy for the limbic system. All of the articles had been peer reviewed and published in highly rated medical journals. </p><p>Around the second hour mark, Alex turned to Yassen. </p><p>“What’s the name of the doctor you’re bringing me to?” </p><p>Yassen kept his eyes on the road. “Have you guessed?” </p><p>“Is it Paternoster?” </p><p>“That’s correct.” </p><p>Alex was surprised. Yassen had told him the doctor in Geneva was a pioneer in his field, but he had assumed they were going to an underground researcher, someone unscrupulous enough to attempt experimental therapies outside of a controlled setting - the kind of doctor willing to meet a mercenary at three in the morning to manipulate a teenager's brain waves.</p><p>On the contrary, based on his Internet searches, Dr. Paternoster appeared well-regarded in the medical community. He had published articles in multiple prestigious journals: Neuron, Nature Neuroscience, and the Journal of Comparative Neurology. He was also independently wealthy from inventing the proprietary electrodes used in commercial electromagnetic therapy equipment. </p><p>Yassen seemed able to tell what he was thinking. “The doctor has conducted this research for more than thirty years. When he initially set out to perform his studies, his ideas and theories were quite far out of the mainstream. My employers sponsored his research and the early-stage development of several of his inventions.” </p><p>Alex silently added this new tidbit about Yassen’s employers to his tally of information. Yassen had said his employers were a private security company, mercenaries of some sort. Sponsoring neuroscientific studies seemed to go well beyond that. </p><p>They made good time. Yassen was a skilled driver, maneuvering at a smooth pace down the mountain roads and then the freeway. Less than three hours later, Yassen parked in front of a nondescript building with an elegant white exterior. The building took up most of the north side of a well-kept square. </p><p>Alex got out of the car. When he felt the first breath of crisp air on his skin, the calm that had settled over him during the car ride evaporated.  </p><p>His heartbeat began to ratchet higher. As he followed Yassen into the building, it dawned on him that he didn’t really know anything about Yassen except that he was dangerous and MI6 clearly had a thick file on him. Dr. Paternoster had published research in prestigious medical journals and pushed the frontiers of neuroscience, but was it really a good idea for Alex to let him essentially neuter his instincts? The instincts he’d relied on to save him at Point Blanc?  </p><p>“Alex.” </p><p>They were in the hall outside a door with a plaque that read <i>Treatment Room 1</i>. Yassen’s hand was poised on the doorknob, and he had turned to look at him straight-on. Alex had no doubt that his face mirrored his inner turmoil.  </p><p>“These are last minute nerves,” Yassen murmured. “Trust yourself. You’ve weighed your options and decided to take the risk, because at the end of this path lies the future you chose. Breathe, Alex.” </p><p>Alex took a shuddering breath. One more. Another. </p><p>Finally, he mustered, “I’m okay.”</p><p>Yassen pushed open the door. There was an exam chair much like what Alex would expect to see at a dentist’s, except instead of the small sink off to the side for the patient to rinse and spit, there was a large, whirring rectangular unit. The unit had loops of cables hanging off of hooks on one side and a black screen monitor built into the other side. There were flat plastic electrodes at the cable ends.</p><p>In the corner was a mousy man, his hair mostly silver, with high cheekbones and a pair of glasses tucked over the breast pocket of his white lab coat. He was perched on a swivel stool with his back leaning up against the wall, eyes closed. He blinked, adjusting to wakefulness at the sound of the door opening. </p><p>“Ah. Mr. Gregorovich.” The man got to his feet. “I trust you’ve had a safe journey?” </p><p>Yassen inclined his head. “Thank you, Doctor, for accommodating our schedule.” </p><p>“I must admit I was intrigued at the case brief you sent me.” Dr Paternoster turned his eyes to Alex, who got the feeling that he was being examined like a particularly interesting lab specimen. </p><p>He felt a hand come down on his shoulder.  “This is Hunter,” Yassen said. Alex glanced at him, not expecting the alias. “I’m afraid we’ve not much time.” </p><p>“Yes, of course. Hunter, please take a seat.” </p><p>Dr. Paternoster gestured towards the exam chair. </p><p>“Hunter, I’m going to attach a few electrodes to your scalp to start reading your brain’s electrical activity. This will help us check how your brain responds to the equipment and ensure there isn’t any reason to suggest that the treatment wouldn’t be effective on you.” </p><p>“It’s not effective on some people?” Alex asked, as he settled back into the chair. </p><p>“Yes. Mostly those with brain chemistry measurements more than one standard deviation outside the average reading.” Dr. Paternoster smiled and began unlooping the cables from the humming unit by the chair.  “As you can imagine, that’s usually the segment we are most keen to treat - our patients with psychiatric disorders. But in your case, I don’t expect any issues based on your presenting profile.” He attached four electrodes to Alex’s head with medical adhesive: two at his temples and two more towards the back of his skull.  </p><p>“Now, you’ll feel a bit of heat as they activate.” </p><p>Alex felt the electrodes warm up. The unit whirred. He tensed, waiting for a zap -   </p><p>“I see you have a high capacity for languages,” Dr. Paternoster said, eyes on the monitor built into the side of the unit. “Strong beta waves in your cerebral cortex. What do you speak?” </p><p>Alex blinked. There had been no zap. Dr. Paternoster could read his brain waves already? “French and Spanish. Some German.” </p><p>“Your nucleus accumbens is highly active as well. Does Hunter have an inquisitive mind, Mr. Gregorovich?” </p><p>“Quite,” Yassen said. He sat on the stool that Dr. Paternoster had vacated, his arms and legs crossed, watching with an attentive look on his face. Even though it was still the dead of night, neither Yassen nor Dr. Paternoster looked the least bit tired. </p><p>Dr. Paternoster spent a few more minutes watching the monitor, then announced, “Yes, I believe it will be safe to proceed.” He turned to Alex. “Now, this is a non-invasive procedure, but you may feel pressure, so for your comfort, I will give you a sedative and anesthetic that should wear off in a few hours.” </p><p>Alex licked dry lips. This was happening. “Can you tell me what’s going to happen?” </p><p>“Of course. This machine will send a targeted electrical pulse to your amygdala in order to dial back your flight or fight response. The neural circuits that activate your heart rate in response to emotional stimuli will be disarmed. I’ll also target a limited number of your pain receptors. I understand you wish to prevent stress on your heart muscles.” </p><p>“Mr. Gregorovich said this was temporary?” </p><p>“That’s right. Your cells naturally rebuild themselves and will start to reverse the effects after about one or two months. If you wanted to sustain the effects, you would have to come in for another treatment.”  </p><p>He slid his gaze to Yassen, who looked back at him levelly. At most, two months to finish the mission.</p><p>Alex leaned back further in the chair, fixed his eyes on the fluorescent light fixtures running the length of the ceiling. “Okay. Thank you. I’m ready.” </p><p>He felt the cold needle enter his upper forearm, felt the pressure as the liquid was injected into his vein. The bright lights on the ceiling grew hazy at the edges and then dimmed before his eyes, which soon drooped closed. </p><p>Voices mingled in the background. Stray words weaved in and out of his consciousness. </p><p>“You’ll have to make sure…” </p><p>“Will he feel pain?” </p><p>“…not done before…” </p><p>“…wears it…”</p><p>The insides of his eyelids were dark and peaceful. The voices faded and Alex slept.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>“Alex.”<p>He could feel a ray of sunshine on the side of his face. His head was lolling at an odd angle. There was a definite crick in the junction of his neck and shoulder. He blinked groggily awake.  Was he sitting upright - that was definitely not normal - </p><p>“Alex, wake up. You can rest more in your room.”</p><p>Yassen Gregorovich. Electromagnetic brain therapy. Dr. Paternoster. </p><p>Alex’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright, only to meet a band of resistance across his chest and torso: a seatbelt. </p><p>He was back in the car. When he spotted Yassen, the man was looking down. Alex followed the trajectory of his gaze to his…wrist? </p><p>Wrapped around his left wrist was a smartwatch. It had a glossy bezel and a silicone strap. But instead of the time, there was a number flashing on its surface: <i>52.</i> </p><p>Alex lifted his hand. “What’s this?” </p><p>“It’s a heart rate monitor. The default display is set to read out your heart rate in beats per minute. It also doubles as a watch.”</p><p>Without noticing it, Alex’s hands had come up to his head.  </p><p>“What happened? It’s done?” </p><p>“Yes. You fell into quite a deep sleep during the treatment. All indications are successful.” Yassen nodded towards his wrist. “Your heartbeat is quite steady in the resting heart rate zone.”</p><p> “I don’t feel any different. Not in here,” he said, gesturing at his head. </p><p>“Dr. Paternoster’s methods are non-invasive. They’re notable for a lack of side effects. All the better to start your training soon,” Yassen said brusquely. “Take the ski lift up the Hohlbahmen line and meet me at the top of the mountain at noon. Wear boots.” </p><p>“Should I bring my skis?” </p><p>“That won’t be necessary.” </p><p>“Alright.” Alex noticed he could see the blood vessels in Yassen’s eyes. “You haven’t slept all night, have you? You drove us there and back.” </p><p>He shrugged. “I require four hours of sleep to recover. So, we meet at noon.” </p><p>Alex cringed at the thought of living on four hours of sleep - that sounded like way too little, especially after driving through the night - but he nodded and got out of the car. He stood in the parking lot until the car disappeared from sight. </p><p>Alex closed his eyes and tilted his head back, soaking in the morning light. </p><p>He’d gone through with it. He was one step closer to reclaiming his life, in a very literal sense. One or two more months and he would no longer have to live on a knife’s edge. 

</p><p>Part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, hyper-alert and paranoid for pulses in his heart and brain. A vast, growing part of himself felt lighter, suffused with unfamiliar feelings. Optimism. Anticipation. </p><p>One or two more months.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The week passed quickly. </p><p>The day after their nighttime adventure, Alex trudged off the ski lift minutes before noon. Yassen was waiting for him in the shadow of the drive terminal with a large pack over his shoulder. He looked rested, his posture calm and easy. He was dressed in a warm black ski parka that was unremarkable among the sea of other black-clad visitors. </p><p>He led Alex away from the crowd, on an unmarked path that ran gently uphill. None of the other skiers followed. When they were obscured from the open path by a copse of trees, Yassen stopped and began to unzip the pack he shouldered. </p><p>“What does the heart monitor say?” he asked. </p><p>Alex glanced down. “59,” he said. </p><p>Yassen nodded. “This is one blind spot in your treatment. The heart speeds up during physical activity in order to deliver oxygen more quickly through the bloodstream. If you’re going to exert yourself, you’ll need to be disciplined about taking supplemental oxygen to prevent fainting incidents.” </p><p>Yassen handed him the contraption he’d withdrawn from his pack. It was a portable oxygen canister. Snaking from the canister was a plastic tube with a clear mask affixed to the end. The canister was also reinforced with a sturdy strap. It was meant to be worn slung over his back, with the strap crisscrossing his chest. </p><p>Alex felt alarmed and a bit nettled that this hadn’t come up before. Yassen glanced at him before rooting around in his pack again. The feeling slid away, and Alex focused on what Yassen pulled out next: snowshoes. </p><p>“Where are we going?” Alex asked. </p><p>“Not far,” Yassen said. “There’s a cabin on this mountain used by the caretakers in case of storms. I’ve secured it for the week.” </p><p>They continued on for fifteen minutes, Alex taking pulls from the oxygen canister out of caution as the path sloped further uphill. His heartbeat never exceeded 70 on the smartwatch. </p><p>Soon, a small cabin, made of the same dark wood as the chalet at the foot of the mountain, emerged. Alex recognized the car parked in the driveway behind the house, connected to a service road winding away through the trees. There was a small clearing to the side of the house where the snow was pristine and untouched...and at the far end of the clearing, right in front of the tree line, was a row of shooting targets.  </p><p>Yassen noticed the direction of his gaze. “A lesson for another day. Did MI6 give you firearms training?” </p><p>“No,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “They were pretty strict upfront. No guns. Unless you count Sir Friend teaching me to shoot clay pigeons in Surrey.”</p><p>“MI6 would make an exception for the British aristocracy,” Yassen said dryly. </p><p>They unbuckled their snowshoes and went inside the cabin, which was a single room. In the far-right corner, there was a neatly made single bed with a red and white quilt. In the opposite corner was a fireplace and stove next to a small sink and baker’s cart with a cutting board. There was no refrigerator, just a large insulated cooler. Directly to Alex’s right was a small, three-legged round table underneath a window, and to his left were sets of skiing and snowboarding equipment.</p><p>“Have you eaten?” Yassen asked, shedding his parka and hanging it on a hook drilled into the wall.    </p><p>“I had a sandwich,” he said. Yassen held out his hand for Alex's ski jacket. He hung it up for Alex and then nodded towards the table. </p><p>“Good. Take a seat. Let’s get started.” </p><p>Yassen was a hard taskmaster. Alex’s first assignment was to review the intel file on MI6’s science headquarters. Afterwards, he had to play back his observations on the building’s physical security posture: each obstacle between a stranger on the outside and the cold storage lab vault where the antidote was stored; potential weaknesses and holes; crucial intel missing from the file; suggestions to rectify the gaps. </p><p>Yassen also drilled Alex on infiltration strategy and tactics, from disguise to reconnaissance techniques. Towards the end of the week, he gave Alex a personnel file of the MI6 scientists most likely to hold access to the lab, and asked him to rank them in order of whom he thought he could most successfully impersonate and why. </p><p>Alex got as many answers wrong as he did right, but he caught on that Yassen didn’t judge him for any mistakes. It dawned on Alex that Yassen was avoiding lectures on purpose. His way of ensuring the lesson would sink in was to make Alex turn over the puzzle pieces in his mind and fit them together himself.  </p><p>The mental exercises were interspersed with physical challenges. Yassen started with hand-to-hand. He was methodical about diagnosing Alex’s blind spots and correcting his stances, but also telling Alex what he did well and should build on. </p><p>Yassen still wiped the floor with him every time they sparred, but Alex knew he was getting better when he didn’t have to beeline for his oxygen canister, which he was starting to call Arty, every ten minutes. </p><p>Before he let Alex near the makeshift gun range, Yassen taught him to disarm an armed assailant. He broke down how to make the retrieval, no matter where the gun was: holstered, inside a jacket, tucked at the small of their back. That last one had been interesting. </p><p>“You’re not going to be armed going in, so if you want a gun, you’ll need to get one on the inside,” Yassen said. “Every MI6 employee takes mandatory firearms training and is issued a sidearm, even the scientists.” </p><p>On day four, Yassen finally handed Alex a Glock 19, fitted with a silencer, and took him to the makeshift range. It didn’t take long before Alex realized the clay pigeons hadn’t been a fluke. He was something of a crack shot. </p><p>After Alex hit five targets in quick succession, he caught Yassen looking at him with a strange expression. </p><p>“What is it?” he asked, glancing at the targets to see if he’d missed something. </p><p>“Nothing,” Yassen said. “Try the Grach next.” </p><p>The evasive excuse wasn’t like him, and as Alex unloaded one bullet after another into the target, Yassen’s expression finally clicked for him: he’d had the same look on his face when they’d run into each other at Point Blanc. Like he’d seen a ghost.</p><p>Abruptly, Alex remembered his secondary objective: find out more about Yassen’s connection to Ian. Uncover whether Yassen had ulterior motives for helping him. </p><p>He would ask the question soon, he promised himself. Tactfully, so he couldn’t be ignored or deflected.  </p><p>Pickpocketing was the final skill added to his repertoire. Yassen had Alex practice on him, then eventually on marks in the hotel lobby. Alex would walk away just long enough to know that he’d gotten away with it, then scurry after the mark to return what was stolen. </p><p>One grateful tourist insisted on giving him ten francs when he returned her passport. Alex felt guilty about that one. He used the money to buy two litres of Coke from the resort shop to contribute to his classmates’ nighttime gatherings.  </p><p>His classmates. Tom. Mr. Cooper. Alex couldn’t pretend to be riding Swiss Rail and playing tourist forever, so he argued out a schedule with Yassen: Alex would get up at six in the morning when the ski lifts began to run. He’d hike up the mountain for Yassen’s tutelage, then meet his friends on the slopes at noon to take a few runs. Always skiing; the memory of his escape on the ironing board through a hail of flying bullets was still too fresh to snowboard. Then he’d beg off for “rest” - really, hustle back up the Hohlbahmen line with Arty - for five straight hours of training before returning to the chalet for dinner. </p><p>The hearty dinners were the highlight of his nights: cheese fondue with potatoes and bread, raclette with mini-gherkins, and rosti with ham or beef stew.  </p><p>After dinner, most of his classmates would congregate in the lounge and game room on the second floor of the resort, technically a common space for all guests. Occasionally a stranger would peek in, glimpse the teenage horde, and promptly turn around and walk away. </p><p>The room boasted squashy sofas encircling a large flatscreen, a pool table, a poker table, and a bar setup in the corner. Someone would usually put a horror movie on in the background, and the Brooklands students would cluster up and chatter and play games and gossip late into the night. </p><p>Tom dragged Alex to the lounge with him on the third night, the evening after his second day of training. Alex was sore and sleepy after another strenuous day and two heaping servings at dinner. Still, the energy in the room was so lively that he found himself waking up. </p><p>Dylan and Ned immediately drafted him into a game of Avalon, a secret identity game where you drew a card and were either a secret villain or a “good” villager who needed to find the secret villain. Alex realized that lying and having a cover story was fun when no one’s life or safety was on the line.</p><p>Throughout the game, Alex glanced down at his watch. Even when he was the secret villain, his heart rate barely budged. </p><p>Alex also noticed the teenage hormones everywhere: his classmates exchanging glances and blushing and showing off to each other, and occasionally sneaking out to the hot tub. Some couples didn’t even make it that far. They ended up snogging on the squashy sofa or in the corner. </p><p>Tom and Steph were one of the couples that paired off. Alex realized that he wasn’t quite sure when Tom and Steph had moved beyond just flirting. He had been too preoccupied with his ordeal. He realized he had blocked out the developments in his friends’ lives, even the developments in Tom’s life, because it hurt too much to think about how all of his friends still had their best years ahead of them.  </p><p>Now that Alex counted himself among the living, he promised himself on his first night in the lounge that he would make up for lost time. He would pay for it in the morning, but he was never going to be sixteen at a resort in Switzerland again, surrounded by his classmates and with limited adult supervision. (Mr. Cooper was an obliging chaperone and disappeared promptly after dinner each night.) Even if his heart weren’t trying to quit on him, he’d never get this time in his life back. Alex ended up stumbling into bed at two in the morning, setting his alarm clock for five. </p><p>He barely made it to the cabin by six the next day. Yassen frowned when he saw his haggard face and the dark circles under his eyes, but made no comment. He didn’t relent on the grueling pace, either. </p><p>Around eleven, Yassen sat him down to go through the MI6 personnel file. Alex found himself drifting. He woke up from a blackout dreamless sleep thirty minutes later, shoulders hunched, slumped over in the rickety wooden chair. Yassen was sitting across from him with an inscrutable expression. Alex mumbled “sorry” and sheepishly returned to the file. That was the only day of the trip he made additional excuses to Tom over text and skipped noon skiing.  </p><p>Nevertheless, after dinner that night, Alex gave into his “fear of missing out” and followed his classmates to the lounge. He was on a winning streak at the poker table when the urge to get away struck him. </p><p>His friends looked at him when he stood up, hands splayed on the edge of the table to bear his weight. </p><p>“Rider? What’s up?” </p><p>“I better go to bed,” he said. </p><p>“Aw, it’s so early, Alex,” protested Jahid. The clock read 10:56PM. </p><p>“You looked wide awake just a second ago,” Gemma said. </p><p>“Yeah, when you bluffed my poor broke arse,” Nick said. </p><p>Alex licked his lips. “No, I think I’m going to go,” he said, the thought of being alone and in bed suddenly feeling like the most welcome thing in the world. He wobbled briefly, fatigue settling over him like a noxious cloud. “Maybe tomorrow. Here, split my chips.” The buy-in had been £10, and he had a lot more than that in his little pile at the moment. </p><p>“What - really, Rider? You taking the piss?” </p><p>“Alex, you’re a proper gentleman, you know that?” Nick said, already reaching across the table. </p><p>“Well, if you’re sure,” Gemma said. “You do look a bit peaky.”</p><p>“Drink some coffee tomorrow night,” Dylan suggested. “No sleep till London, Rider.” </p><p>“We can sleep when we’re dead,” Jahid agreed. </p><p><i>You have no idea.</i> Alex cracked a smile. “Yeah. Tomorrow, then.” </p><p>He was grateful they didn’t press him further. He knew his classmates were aware of his “medical condition” but not the extent of it, just that he couldn’t play sport anymore.</p><p>The next morning, Alex arrived early at the cabin without issue. That was the day Yassen took him outside for shooting lessons. </p><p>At the noon ski break with his friends, Tom pulled him aside when they got to the bottom of the mountain.  </p><p>“Alex, mate, sorry about yesterday. I was hanging out with Steph and when I came back, they told me you’d gone,” he said with a questioning look in his eyes. “How’re you feeling?” </p><p>“I think I overdid it the night before,” Alex said. “It’s nothing though, really. Don’t let me hold you back. How’re you getting on with Steph?” </p><p>He realized how that sounded seconds after the words left his mouth. He and Tom looked at each other and burst out laughing. </p><p>Alex continued to retire early, night after night. He always contemplated just saying “Screw it” and getting swept up in the late-night festivities, but around eleven a niggling feeling would overcome him, drawing him back to his room like a kite reeled in on a string. </p><p>When Alex got up at eleven like clockwork, Tom would follow and accompany him on the walk back to Alex’s room. Tom would always stay in the lounge now if Alex were around. Alex found himself savoring the ritual, ambling through the quiet chalet halls with his best mate and talking about nothing in particular. </p><p>Until the second to last day when Yassen laid out what he had to do. </p><p>“What? No way,” Alex said reflexively. “I’m not doing that.” </p><p>“You need to substantiate your cover,” Yassen replied, unfazed. </p><p>“You think Mrs. Jones is going to call him and ask? I won’t do it.”</p><p>“Alex.” Yassen’s tone was unflinching. </p><p>Alex crossed his arms and glared. “I’ll find another way.” </p><p>Yassen looked at him coolly. “There is no time to waste. You will make the call tomorrow.” </p><p>“I get that, and I’ll figure out another way to make her believe me,” he said firmly. </p><p>But as the hours ticked down, his mind repeatedly drew a blank. He was sullen at dinner, anxiety and dread sitting queasy in his gut. Tom asked him a few times what was wrong. Alex just shook his head and said, “It’s fine.” </p><p>Despite his taciturn shift, Tom - loyal Tom - still got up to follow when he saw Alex rise to leave the lounge. Alex wanted to say something, anything, but his mouth remained stubbornly shut. He didn’t acknowledge Tom as they walked side-by-side through the halls, more distance between them than usual. </p><p>On the landing before turning down the hall to Alex’s room, Tom stopped him, a hand on his shoulder. “Alex, you going to tell me what’s going on? You seriously want to go to bed in this mood? You’ve been out of it all night.” </p><p>“Well, excuse me for not putting on a happy face all the time,” he said. Ice cold fire was burning through him, as if his resentment and stress had combusted and wanted out. </p><p>Tom looked flabbergasted. “Alex, did something happen today -”</p><p>“So what if it did?” </p><p>“Well - I can help you, we can go see a doctor -” </p><p>Alex snorted. “No doctor can help me, and you can’t, either. God, it’s like I not only have to fool myself about this shitty situation, but I have to walk around on eggshells and try to make you and Jack feel better about it too. It’s making me <i>lose my goddamn mind.</i>” The words were spilling forth, molten and uncontrollable. “Why can’t you just - leave me alone?” </p><p>He pushed Tom’s hand away and stalked down the hallway. Seconds later, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him, another touch on his shoulder - </p><p>
  <i>Thwack. </i>
</p><p>Alex’s knuckles smarted. The force of his punch had sent Tom stumbling backwards, holding his hand to his face. There was already a red mark starting to form. Tom stared at him. </p><p>“Fuck, Alex, you need help,” he choked out. Then he turned on his heel and barreled away.  </p><p>The reality of what he’d just done suddenly washed over Alex in tidal wave proportions. He felt sick to his core. Watching Tom’s back turned to him, part of Alex screamed at him to follow, to take everything back. But his feet might as well have been concrete blocks. He didn’t budge an inch. </p><p>In the end, he’d done exactly what Yassen had told him to do.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>The next morning, Alex sat across from Yassen at the small round table in the cabin.<p>“Are you ready?” </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>Alex dialed the number, a number he hadn’t called since before the school dance where Julius had attacked him. Since before he was poisoned…  </p><p>The phone rang twice before she picked up. </p><p>“Mrs. Jones, it’s Alex,” he said, a dull, deadened quality to his voice. </p><p>“Just a moment.” He heard a rustling noise, then the sound of a door closing, before she came back. </p><p>“I thought you were in Switzerland, Alex,” she said. “Are you alright?” </p><p>So MI6 was keeping tabs on him. His brain processed the revelation clinically; there was no jolt of surprise through his body to accompany it, no increase in heart rate.   </p><p>“Yes, I’m still here. My class trip ends tomorrow.” </p><p>Mrs. Jones didn’t say anything, just waited for him to continue. </p><p>“You probably know. I’m not well.” </p><p>A soft, sad exhale came across the phone. “I know. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“My doctors say I have a year.” </p><p>“It is unimaginable,” she said quietly. “Can I help, Alex? We expedited your case to the best specialists in the field. But I’m aware there hasn’t been a breakthrough.” </p><p>She sounded so sincere. Alex thought of his suspicion that they were keeping the enzyme cocktail from him on purpose. Maybe they really had no clue about its potential uses. </p><p>“No, there hasn’t. I’m coming to terms with it. I don’t want to waste time. I’m just...really messed up.” He took a deep breath. “I punched Tom yesterday over something stupid. I feel out of control, and I hate it. I need to get my head on straight so I don’t screw up what time I have left.” </p><p>“What are you asking for, Alex?” </p><p>“Tom said something… He said I need help. And it got me thinking that maybe I do, to get through this. I mean, I don’t want any drugs. Just someone professional to listen. Some crisis management.” He rubbed his temples and continued, subdued, low, “I keep going over and over what happened at Point Blanc. At the interrogation site, in the woods at the Friends’. What I could’ve done differently. I must have panicked too much, you know?” </p><p>He could feel Yassen’s eyes on him. </p><p>“That’s why I’m calling. I’d try to see someone through the NHS, but it’s just… the Official Secrets Act. That’s a gag order, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be able to talk about what happened.”</p><p>“Alex, are you saying you want to speak to a psychologist on staff here?” </p><p>“Yeah. I don’t know where else to go.” </p><p>Mrs. Jones was silent for a beat longer than Alex was comfortable with. Time to try a different tactic. </p><p>“You don’t take responsibility for what happened to me, do you?” He let the anger bleed through. “How many other teenagers do you know that have heart attacks?” </p><p>Mrs. Jones’ response was immediate. “No, Alex, that’s not what I think at all. I’m considering the logistics.” She paused. “When do you get back to London?” </p><p>“Tomorrow night,” he said stiffly.  </p><p>“Alright.” The brisk tone he recognized was back. “Leave it with me, Alex. I’ll be in touch.” Her voice lowered one register. “Take care, alright? None of this is your fault. Sometimes matters spin out of control.”</p><p>He let that sink in. “Thanks, Mrs. Jones.” </p><p>“Tom is a loyal friend. He’ll forgive you. Enjoy the last day of your trip, Alex.” </p><p>“Thanks,” he repeated, barely louder than a whisper.  </p><p>He hung up the phone, his arms suddenly weightless. He stared at the grain of the table for a moment, then up at Yassen. </p><p>“Acceptable,” Yassen said. Alex recognized the praise for what it was. “She seems inclined to help you. What happened in the Friends’ woods?” </p><p>Alex blinked, then grimaced at the memory. “Fiona. My “sister.” I joined her and her psychotic boyfriend hunting on the estate,” he said. “They thought it would be better sport to shoot at me instead.” </p><p>“You evaded them?” </p><p>“I hid under a shrub, then came up behind him and stole his rifle.” </p><p>Yassen raised his eyebrows. </p><p>“See, I could disarm people before you came along,” Alex said wryly.</p><p>“An untrained schoolboy. I don’t doubt it,” Yassen said. </p><p>“I’m a schoolboy.” The retort came automatically. </p><p>“So you are. A trained one.” There was amusement in Yassen’s eyes. He got up from the table in one smooth motion. “You’ve done well, Alex. We are done for the week. I’ll see you in London.”</p><p>“What? When?” </p><p>“I’ll find you,” Yassen said simply. “You have the objectives for your first appointment. There is little need for us to be in contact before then.” </p><p>Yassen looked at him expectantly and Alex got to his feet. He pulled his jacket off the back of the chair and shrugged it on. He felt a little miffed at the abrupt dismissal. Suddenly Alex felt a hand in his hair, making him jump. Yassen was...ruffling his hair? </p><p>Yassen’s hand skated down the side of his face. He took Alex’s chin in his hand and tilted his jaw up to look up at him. “Alex, what you did was necessary. Do you think Tom would begrudge you for even one second, if he knew that little row would help you heal?” </p><p>Alex was silent. He felt Yassen’s thumb apply the slightest bit more pressure. </p><p>“No,” Alex finally admitted. “He would want me to do whatever it takes.” </p><p>Yassen released his hold. “He would. You’ve already come this far. Don’t falter now.” </p><p>“I know. I won’t.”</p><p>Alex made his way towards the door. At the threshold, he paused and looked back over his shoulder, taking a mental snapshot of the one room cabin where he had learned so much. </p><p>Yassen was still looking right at him. “One last thing, Alex.” </p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“Try snowboarding today.” </p><p>Alex was nonplussed. “Why?”  </p><p>“You enjoy it more than skiing, when ironing boards aren’t involved.”   </p><p>So Yassen knew about that. Alex shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then glanced to his side where the skiing and snowboarding equipment was propped up against the wall.</p><p>“Why don’t you join me? We can race.” </p><p>He felt stupid as soon as the words left his mouth. Of course Yassen wouldn’t have time to ski with him, much less want to race. </p><p>“It would have to be a black diamond.” Yassen’s tone was bland. </p><p>Alex found himself starting to smile. “Yeah. I can do that.” </p><p>“Then lead the way.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Department’s science headquarters was across the street from Royal and General Bank. It was a sleek, modern building made of chrome and glass. </p><p>A long expanse of stainless-steel turnstiles spanned the lobby, barring the way to three elevator banks. To the far-left of the hall was the turnstile specifically for visitors, complete with a security x-ray machine for visitors’ bags. </p><p>Alex retrieved his paper visitor’s pass from the reception desk and headed for the visitor’s turnstile. It was two-thirty on Tuesday afternoon. There wasn’t much traffic in and out of the lobby, and he was the only visitor. </p><p>The security guard shook her head when he dropped his schoolbag on the x-ray machine belt. </p><p>“Hand it here,” she said. She unzipped the bag and poked through the contents briefly with a stick. Alex held his breath, but she just handed it back to him and waved him on through. The plexiglass turnstile gates whirred open. </p><p>“You’ll need the second elevator bank,” she told him. “The doctor will meet you at reception.” </p><p>“Thanks,” he said. </p><p>During the elevator ride up, he glanced at his watch. Sixty-seven beats per minute - higher than usual but still in the resting heart range. </p><p>His body and mind were sending completely opposite signals in real-time. Alex consciously knew that he was nervous, but his heart beat a steady pace, his pulse was even, his muscles were relaxed and free of tension.</p><p>When he stepped onto the landing, Dr. Wu was waiting for him directly in the elevator bank. He looked up from his phone, pocketing it. </p><p>“Alex?” </p><p>“Yes. Hi,” Alex said.  </p><p>Dr. Wu was a tall, lean Asian man wearing a sweater, khakis, and round, wire-rim spectacles. Alex realized he had been bracing himself for a retired interrogation specialist, not a quirky academic.</p><p>The doctor held his hand out to shake. “I’m Dr. Wu. Nice to meet you,” he said. “Come with me.” </p><p>Alex was alert as he was led out of the elevator bank. He watched as Dr. Wu badged into another hallway with two frosted glass conference rooms. He could see shadows beyond the glass; they were occupied for meetings.</p><p>Dr. Wu turned left, bypassing the conference rooms and a coat closet for a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. He badged in for a second time onto a quiet landing ringed with offices. Each office window was floor-to-ceiling glass and overlooked the street. </p><p>They entered a corner office with two orange, modern-looking sofas, which were boxy and rectangular with chrome legs. The sofas occupied the walls on either side of a glass end table nestled into the far corner of the room. </p><p>Dr. Wu took a seat on the sofa arranged against the far wall, on the cushion closest to the end-table. Alex cautiously took a seat in the middle of the other sofa, straddling the two cushions.  </p><p>With both of them seated, Dr. Wu looked at him through his spectacles. Alex waited expectantly for him to say something like “So, what brings you here today?” or perhaps comment on his youth. </p><p>But Dr. Wu only remained silent, a polite, open look on his face. </p><p>Alex looked down at his knees. <i>I just want to get this over with so I can get on with the mission.</i></p><p>He searched for somewhere to start. He was dying? He’d been used and abandoned by MI6? He was an orphan?</p><p>What he said into the silence was: “I punched my best friend.”</p><p>He could feel Dr. Wu’s eyes on him. The weight of his gaze reminded him of Yassen, except the thought of Yassen sitting around and waiting for him to talk about his feelings was ridiculous. </p><p><i>Screw it,</i> Alex thought, and his tongue loosened. He needed to fill the time anyway. </p><p>“My best friend, his name is Tom. I apologized to him after I hurt him, and he said it was fine, but I know it shook him pretty hard. I can’t stop thinking about it either.” He raked a hand through his hair. “It might have been better if he’d never met me so he wouldn’t have to deal with my shit.”   </p><p>He expected a platitude or for Dr. Wu to point out that he was being dramatic. Instead, Dr. Wu said, “Tell me about your friendship, Alex.” </p><p>Alex hesitated. “Well, we’re friends even though we’re pretty different. I mean, we both like football, but he’s really into making and watching movies too. Especially foreign films. He’s not ashamed of what he likes, either. He puts himself out there and gets along with everyone. Most of my other friends, I’ve met through Tom. </p><p>“I've always been more keen on sport. I started showing Tom what I could do right before we turned twelve. Climbing and parkour, all the stuff Ian taught me. He was always happy for me when I figured out how to land a move or a jump, even if he couldn’t join in. He said I had my skills, and he had his skills. He never got jealous.” </p><p>“Did you have friends who were jealous?” Dr. Wu asked. </p><p>“I guess so.” Alex hadn’t thought about Georgie in years. In retrospect, he knew Georgie had just been a competitive git, but at the time the deterioration of their friendship had bewildered him. Georgie had moved away when Alex was eleven, and the next year Alex had met Tom. </p><p>“So, Tom never acted that way,” Dr. Wu prompted. “Was there anything you <i>would</i> fight about?” </p><p>“Not really. Nothing serious. He was pretty hacked off when I started acting dodgy because of MI6, but that was a special case.” </p><p>“Did Tom ever do anything to make you angry?” </p><p>Alex thought it over. He and Tom were incredibly different, but Tom had a keen sense of Alex’s moods and preferences, and Alex of Tom’s. That adaptability formed the bedrock of their friendship and sustained it too. </p><p>“I can’t really think of anything,” he said. </p><p>“So, what happened the night that you punched him?” </p><p>“It was late. I guess I was tired, and irritable. I don’t even remember thinking when it happened. I just turned around and punched him,” he lied.<i> I failed. I couldn’t come up with an alternate plan fast enough to cover for my story to Mrs. Jones.</i>  </p><p>Alex braced for the judgment to appear on Dr. Wu’s face, but it never did. The silence stretched out until Alex picked up the thread where he left off. </p><p>“Ever since I got back from Point Blanc, I either feel numb, or I feel like there’s this ball of energy in me waiting to explode,” he said haltingly. “It’s gotten worse since my heart problem started. Part of me feels like I never came down that mountain. That I’m still in danger and I have to fight my way out.”</p><p>“You’ve moved your hand over your heart.” </p><p>Alex looked down. He hadn’t noticed moving, but Dr. Wu was right. He could feel the slow, steady thump of his heartbeat against his palm. </p><p>“That must have been a very frightening experience,” Dr. Wu said. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“The aftermath of your heart attack. Finding out you wouldn’t be able to just bounce back.” </p><p>Alex was silent. Dr. Wu continued. </p><p>“A lot of your identity seems to be bound up in your physical capabilities, Alex. Relying on your body, trying new physical activities, seems integral to who you are.” </p><p>“That’s not the only thing I care about,” Alex said, sounding defensive despite himself. </p><p>Dr. Wu shook his head. “I’m not suggesting you’ve sacrificed brains over brawn. You’re clearly very intelligent. But I think you’ve channeled your cleverness into your instincts and reflexes, which is another expression of physicality. You’ve never had to focus on your life at the mental level. The life lived in your mind.” </p><p>“What does that mean?” </p><p>“It means something different to everyone. What image did it conjure for you, when I mentioned it just now?” </p><p>Alex shifted uneasily. Honestly, what had flashed through his head was a cage. A four-by-six cell with iron bars. </p><p>“Like I’m trapped,” he admitted. </p><p>“You mentioned something similar earlier, too,” Dr. Wu said. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You said you feel like you’re still stuck at Point Blanc.” </p><p>“Because I almost died there. And it’s probably still killing me.” He shot a look towards his heart meaningfully. </p><p>“Do you feel like you’re dying right this moment?” </p><p>Alex was speechless. “I know I am.” </p><p>“I don’t say this to discount what you’re feeling, only to add a new perspective,” Dr. Wu said, “but taken one way, everyone is dying at any given moment. It’s the end that awaits all of us. My question was whether you <i>feel</i> like you’re dying right now. How does right now compare to Point Blanc?” </p><p>Alex opened his mouth, then shut it. </p><p>Most days, the slow deterioration of his heart was no longer noticeable. He felt stronger after Yassen’s training, and with his pills and Dr. Paternoster’s treatment, he could carry on quite normally. It was an immense contrast to the sense of imminent doom that had gripped him after his cover was blown at Point Blanc. </p><p>There was something else, too. </p><p>“It’s true that I was trapped at Point Blanc, but I was also doing whatever I could to survive," he said tightly. "If I made the wrong decision, I knew it could end at any moment. So I felt awake, I felt alive. I kept moving.” </p><p>“Adrenaline,” Dr. Wu supplied, “for which you had an outlet.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>Dr. Wu leaned forward slightly. “I think you punched Tom because you felt threatened, Alex. You felt trapped by your circumstances, and helpless to do anything about it.” He lifted and spread his arms, palms up, as if to say <i>It couldn’t be helped. </i>“Punching Tom was a physical expression of that, in line with your ingrained habit of taking physical action to solve your problems.” He paused. “Have you ever heard of an amygdala hijack?” </p><p>Alex shook his head, even as the word “amygdala” pinged his memory. He’d heard the term before, he was sure of it. </p><p>“Your amygdala is an ancient structure in the emotional part of your brain, or the limbic system. Evolutionarily, it developed the ability to react to stimuli much faster than your rational brain in the prefrontal cortex. When our ancestors spotted a sabre-tooth tiger, they didn’t need to think about it to start running. What we call the fight-or-flight response is really the amygdala at work,” Dr. Wu said. “In the modern context, the amygdala causes an intense emotional reaction to any <i>perceived</i> threat or stress. You feel threatened and cease to think. You just react in order to protect yourself. Your rational brain is hijacked by your emotional brain.” </p><p>As soon as Dr. Wu said “fight-or-flight”, Alex knew where he had heard “amygdala” before: from Dr. Paternoster in Treatment Room 1. He frowned, feeling like he was missing something important.  </p><p>“You’re under a lot of stress, Alex,” Dr. Wu continued. “Chronic illness can feel like a hammer looming over you, ready to drop at any time. Don’t blame yourself too much for what happened with Tom.” </p><p>He patted his knees. “What I’d like to work on with you in future sessions are techniques to prevent or stop a hijack. I’d also like you to think about how you define yourself outside of your physical capabilities. Unfortunately, with your illness, there could be a day soon when your body simply won’t be able to keep up. Even with physical limitations, you can live a full life and maintain your relationships. Having a strategy for coping with that now, building your mental strength, will help you down the line.” </p><p>Alex had looked over at the clock as soon as Dr. Wu had mentioned “future sessions.” Somehow, the full hour had gone by.</p><p>Alex nodded, and they both got up. Dr. Wu walked Alex out into the hallway. “Well, Alex, it was very nice to meet you. I’ll see you here at the same time next week?”</p><p>“Yes.” Alex shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. “Where can I find the toilet?” </p><p>“Right there.” Dr. Wu gestured over his shoulder. The door was just across from the conference room.  “Can you find your way down alright?” </p><p>“Yes. Thanks, Doctor.” </p><p>“Have a good week, Alex.” </p><p>They went their separate ways. Facing the door to the toilets, Alex listened for the electronic beep signaling Dr. Wu had badged back in. When it sounded, he took a breath, centering himself, and got to work. </p><p>Luckily for him, the toilet was empty of other visitors. He took the largest stall at the end and began to strip down. Underneath his clothes was a blue cotton janitor’s uniform, exactly matching the uniform of the vendor used by MI6’s cleaners. It had been among the packages waiting for him when he returned from Switzerland. </p><p>There was even a name-tag stitched into the front pocket: <i>Alfie.</i> Yassen had a sense of humor. </p><p>The rest of the disguise involved a floppy brown-haired wig, complete with bangs that he could sweep over to either side to give him at least a little cover from any security cameras. Alex tucked his fair hair underneath the brown wig and pulled it snugly over his skull.  </p><p>Next, he withdrew the textbooks, which Yassen had also shipped to him. They were reinforced with some type of lining that would shield them from the x-ray machine. Luckily, Alex hadn’t needed to test that out. </p><p>In the first textbook, a square had been cut into the very center of the pages. Inside was a variety of gadgets as well as the payload - several discreet dongles, no wider than two centimeters, with USB hub inserts. There was also a double-walled insulated case, a little larger than his palm. He distributed the items across the many pockets in Alfie’s uniform. </p><p>The other textbook had been similarly excavated. In the hollow was a folded up toolbelt, which he took out and strapped around his waist, along with several anti-static cleaning cloths. </p><p>Alex shoved his discarded clothes into the bag, scanned the toilet floor to make sure he hadn’t dropped anything, and left the restroom. He squirreled his bag away in the coat closet he’d spotted and walked towards the elevator bank.</p><p>He glanced down at his watch. 70. </p><p>Alex took the elevator down to the lower laboratory floors, LL1. When he emerged onto the landing, he noticed it was quite different from the upper floors. Instead of being paneled in wood, there was cinderblock, and the air smelled sterile. </p><p>He was lucky. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind him, a group of three scientists emerged from the hallway, talking amongst themselves. Alex ducked past them and inside before the door could swing closed. </p><p>Just like upstairs, the hallway landing had conference rooms, a coat closet, and a restroom. Alex assessed where he should direct Alfie’s efforts and decided on the closet. He knelt down by the door hinges and grabbed a screwdriver from his toolbelt. Crouching over the hinge, he pretended to examine it, listening for the sound of a beep from the door down the hall. </p><p>He didn’t have to wait long. He heard the approaching group of people talking before the beep even sounded. Alex rose to his feet, slipping the screwdriver back into his toolbelt and walking assuredly and casually towards the door. </p><p>The group coming through had about five people, all of them in white coats. He recognized two of them from his personnel files: Ngozi Adegbile, one of the top three scientists in all of MI6, and Leonard Janssen, Alex’s target of choice based on his similar height and build to Alex. Both of them were senior scientists with unfettered access to the cold storage vault where the antidote was stored. </p><p>Alex averted his eyes as they passed and caught the door handle just before it shut closed again.</p><p>He walked out onto the landing. Cubicles in sets of two clustered along the near wall to Alex's left and right. Across from Alex, the perimeter of the floor was entirely taken up by the lab, which was walled off behind a clear glass partition. Alex could see rows of scientific equipment set up on the workstations. </p><p>He could also see that the floor was emptying out. People were heading for the doors. Alex glanced at his watch, puzzled. It was only four in the afternoon; too early for the mass exodus to go home. Besides, some of the people in the personnel file were notorious night owls. </p><p>Alex realized he’d had a stroke of luck. There must have been some kind of department-wide meeting going on. That would mean at least half an hour for reconnaissance on a mostly deserted floor.  </p><p>Alex took a circuit. He found the cold storage vault in the northeastern corner, just like the intel file had said. Alex drew closer, only to realize that his luck had run out. </p><p>The intel file had also been correct about most of the security measures: there was a biometric fingerprint scanner and a scanner for badge access. What the intel file hadn’t reported was the PIN pad. </p><p>Alex tilted his head. A cold feeling was settling over him. Well, that changed things. </p><p>He backed away from the vault. As he turned over the problem in his head, he roamed the floor, his thoughts preoccupied as he went through the motions of his original plan: Find the offices of the senior scientists on his target list. Insert the payloads into their computer ports. Take intact fingerprints off of their mouses and keyboards. The whole time, pretend to be emptying rubbish bins and cleaning the office glass. </p><p>His mind was whirring in the background. Was it time to give up? Turn himself over to Alan Blunt? </p><p>Not yet, he decided. He’d regroup with Yassen and figure things out from there. It was a PIN pad, not Fort Knox. He, Kyra, and James had been able to hack Dr. Grief’s PIN pad at Point Blanc. He and Yassen could figure out how to get past this hurdle as well. </p><p>Alex was preparing to leave when a strange feeling settled over him. A queer noise like a feedback tone rang in his left ear canal, getting louder and louder, until it thrummed through his brain at splitting volume. He clutched his head. What was happening? </p><p>Suddenly the ringing dissipated. Every muscle in Alex’s body relaxed. His posture straightened as if his spine had been pulled taut by a puppeteer.</p><p>Shunted aside were Alex's plans to bike home and ring Yassen. He focused instead on the memory of the locked drawer in Dr. Adegbile’s office. </p><p>It was time to borrow a gun.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Leonard Janssen was a biochemist by training, but his hobby was astrophysics. He liked to think about exoplanets and string theory when things got stressful at work or at home with the twins. He knew it was a bad day when he found his mind wandering to gravitons before two in the afternoon. </p><p>To make matters worse, HQ had decided to hold a truly interminable all-hands meeting at four. It turned out everyone was required to pitch in overtime to prepare for some big operation in Murmansk. They were all being seconded to work hours in the microdevices division. The operatives had made a long wishlist, including a stun grenade small enough to be disguised as a keyring, and explosive charges hidden in a stick of gum. And those were just two of the easier requests. </p><p>“They want everything,” Fred grumbled to Leonard after the meeting, “but they can’t have everything. This isn’t Primark.” </p><p>Leonard chuckled. “Tell me about it. I had Alan Blunt personally breathing down my neck this morning asking why that virus hasn’t been sequenced yet. They just sent it to us <i>yesterday.</i>” </p><p>“What a wanker,” Fred said. </p><p>“Yeah.” Leonard shook his head. “Alright, I’m calling it in for the night. You heading home soon, Fred?” </p><p>“No. Probably going to be another late one. Nobody like Cecelia waiting for me at home, unfortunately,” Fred said glumly. </p><p>“You haven’t got two little devils, either.” </p><p>“True. How are the little rascals?” </p><p>“Teething.” Leonard sighed. Fred winced in sympathy. </p><p>Leonard packed up his desk and grabbed his briefcase. He was on his way to the elevators, walking down the narrow corridor to the closet, when he spotted someone in maintenance coming towards him. He began to step to the side but was too slow, and the maintenance person shouldered into him head-on. </p><p>Leonard froze, his heart starting to pound. </p><p>That was the hard barrel of a gun pressed against his back. The intruder was behind him, exerting pressure on his shoulder blades. </p><p>“If you don’t want to lose your spleen,” said a pleasant, low voice, “don’t say a word, and start walking.”  </p><p>Leonard was rigid. The gun pressed a bit harder into his back. He stumbled the first step, then began to walk. He prayed someone would come into the hallway soon. If it was two on one, maybe he had a chance of getting out of this without becoming a paraplegic - </p><p>They walked just a couple of meters before the intruder opened a door adjacent to the toilet and shoved him inside. It was a supply closet, Leonard realized. He barely had a moment to take in his new surroundings before he felt the jab of a needle in the side of his neck. Vertigo came over him. Leonard’s eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted sideways. </p><p>When he came to again, someone was crouching over him. Leonard blinked and wondered if he was dreaming, because the figure in front of him was young. He couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, a boy with a mop of brown hair. </p><p>Then Leonard looked into his eyes. They were flinty and hard without a dreg of emotion. He positively exuded an air of menace, and the gun in his hand, trained on Leonard at heart level, completed the tableau. </p><p>“Hello, Dr. Janssen,” the boy said. “It’s two AM. Don’t worry, I’ve sent your wife a text telling her you’re working late. Luckily, you have Face ID.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. </p><p>“What do you want?” Leonard asked. </p><p>“Simple. I need you to open the cold storage vault for me.” </p><p>Leonard’s mind raced. There were a variety of dangerous solutions in the vault. Lethal viruses and poisons: bioweapons. </p><p>“I can’t do that for you,” Leonard forced himself to say. </p><p>“I think you can. If not for yourself, then for your colleague over there.” </p><p>The boy tilted his head, and Leonard’s gaze followed. It was Fred. He was sprawled across the closet floor, unconscious and trussed up with his hands and feet bound. There was a purpling bruise on his temple.  </p><p>“If it makes you feel better, I’m not here for anything dangerous,” the boy said. “I’m looking for a healing enzyme cocktail MI6 procured as bycatch during an operation a few months ago. There are three vials. I’ll settle for two.” </p><p>Leonard knew what he was referring to. He remembered when Smithers had brought the solution to them. Its rapid healing properties had caused quite a stir. Laura Swanson had tried to replicate the solution and had been quite put out when her funding was pulled before she could decipher the formula. The vials had been on ice ever since. </p><p>The boy was getting to his feet. Leonard noticed that he’d donned Fred’s white coat over his maintenance uniform. </p><p>He raised his arm, gun pointed at Fred. “Well?” he said. </p><p>“Who are you?” </p><p>The boy’s eyes rolled heavenward. “That reminds me. I really don’t need you talking for this.” He reached for something on his tool belt. Leonard jerked away when he came towards him, but it was futile; the rag was shoved into his mouth and he was hauled to his feet. </p><p>“We’re going. If you decide not to code in when we’re at the vault, I’m going to wake up your friend, and you’re going to watch as I kill him. Slowly.” </p><p>Leonard was perp-walked out of the supply closet and across the floor, panic simmering inside him as they closed in on the cold storage vault. The floor was a ghost town; even the night owls had gone home. </p><p>Too soon, he found himself standing in front of the vault. Leonard swallowed. He swiped his badge, before lifting his hand shakily to enter in the PIN code. An LED light flashed green to show the PIN had been accepted, which brought the biometric fingerprint scanner to life. Feeling sick to his stomach, Leonard pressed his index finger to the scanner.</p><p>The lock on the door released with a hiss of compressed air. Leonard heard a soft exhale from behind him, and then he was shoved inside the vault and up against the cold wall. The boy yanked his arms behind him and he felt his wrists being encircled in duct tape. Two layers. </p><p>The boy was efficient. He manhandled Leonard to face forward again and scanned the labels on the racks. Each rack held a long, refrigerated glass case stocked with vials. </p><p>The boy walked both of them purposefully to the rack that held the enzyme cocktail solution. He opened the case and plucked two vials from inside. </p><p>Leonard felt some tension seep from his shoulders. The fallout wouldn’t be too bad, if that was all he took - </p><p>Then the boy opened another case. Leonard’s eyes widened and he began frantically working his tongue against the rag in his mouth. </p><p>He spat out the rag just as the boy secured the vial in a case he withdrew from one of his pockets. </p><p>“What are you doing? That contains prions from infected BSE tissue - mad cow disease!” Leonard gasped out. </p><p>When the boy turned to look at him, his eyes were glassy. </p><p>“There’s a very dangerous variant in that vial. Please, put it back!” </p><p>The boy said nothing, just reached into his pocket again. Another rag emerged and was shoved into Leonard’s mouth. </p><p>Leonard struggled as he was pushed out of the vault and back to the supply closet. He managed to spit out the rag again just as he crossed the threshold. The boy shoved him harshly from behind and he landed on his front with a grunt. Leonard rolled over and froze. </p><p>The boy’s gun was levelled at his head. His finger was on the trigger.  </p><p>“No,” Leonard said. “No, no -”</p><p>The boy glanced at Fred. “He didn’t see my face. He will get to live.” The words were toneless. </p><p>“Please,” Leonard begged. “I have kids - two little kids -”   </p><p>An odd expression passed over the boy’s features. He saw the boy’s hand waver. A sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead and cheeks, and a nerve throbbed in his temple. </p><p>“Yassen, no,” the boy suddenly choked out. “Stop. I don’t want this.” </p><p>Hope rose in Leonard, even as Cecelia’s face flashed before his eyes. “Please,” he said. </p><p>There was the muted bang of a silenced gunshot. Leonard’s world went black.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Just before three in the morning, Alex walked calmly out of MI6’s science headquarters, badging out with Fred’s ID. The security guards glanced up as he left, then returned to their terminals: it was just another hard-working career scientist on a late-night bender.<p>He walked several blocks away from Liverpool Street until he reached a black car idling on the curb. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that his bike was strapped into the rack hitched to the boot. He got into the passenger seat, handed Yassen the insulated case containing the vials, and settled back. </p><p>He felt Yassen’s eyes on him before the car shifted into drive. Alex watched London pass by through the window, his expression placid. </p><p>They were an hour outside the city, on a country lane that ran alongside a gully, when Alex suddenly sat up. He scrambled to unlock the door. Yassen pulled over just as Alex pushed the door open. He fell out onto the roadside, dead winter grass beneath his hands and knees, and retched into the gully.  </p><p>Panting and shaking, Alex stared unseeing at the ground. The image of Leonard Janssen with a pool of blood expanding beneath his head refused to disappear.</p><p>The car engine died down, followed by the sound of footsteps. Yassen crouched down next to him. </p><p>Alex swallowed bile. “You…you were controlling me.” </p><p>“Yes,” Yassen said. </p><p>“How?” </p><p>“Your watch has been transmitting electromagnetic waves to your brain, keyed to my verbal and written commands.” </p><p>A moan of denial escaped him. “You’ve been controlling me since Geneva? You’ve been in my head this entire time?”</p><p>It made sense now, why Dr. Wu’s “amygdala hijack” theory had rung so oddly for him. Dr. Paternoster’s treatment had disabled his amygdala's flight-or-flight response, so it couldn’t have explained why he'd punched Tom. Yassen had been in the driver’s seat the whole time. </p><p>Other pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. His rigid adherence to his “curfew.” Alex’s convenient amnesia about his secondary objective: he had not pursued Yassen’s connection to Ian, or attempted to uncover Yassen’s ulterior motives. Even overcoming his reluctance to go snowboarding was suspect. </p><p>Alex realized with horror that it had been a mistake, a tremendous mistake, to think that Yassen could have Alex’s best interests at heart. </p><p>“This was never about saving me, was it? What have I done?” </p><p>He looked up at Yassen, not sure what he was expecting to see from the man who had used him so mercilessly. At first glance, Yassen’s expression was unreadable, but Alex knew him better by now. He could see the tinge of regret in his eyes, and something else that looked like...pride? </p><p>“This was a three-pronged mission, Alex,” Yassen said quietly. “You were successful on all fronts. From the vault, you obtained the enzyme cocktail, as well as a sample that a client of ours is willing to pay dearly for. You also compromised several employee workstations, which gave us access to the network inside the lab. SCORPIA’s analysts have already started to exfiltrate their data.” </p><p>The USB dongles, the payloads, flashed before his eyes. He remembered opening the shipment and wondering why he needed them, before the thought had conveniently dissolved from his brain. </p><p>Yassen continued. “We also used the access to wipe today’s video surveillance. MI6 will have no record of anything that happened on that floor.” </p><p>“Oh my God,” Alex said. His hand was on his heart again and he could feel tears stinging his eyes. “Leonard Janssen. I killed him.” </p><p>“It was necessary. If he told MI6 that it was a teenager who forced him into opening the vault, they would have made the connection immediately. You would have won your life at the cost of your freedom.” </p><p>“It doesn’t matter. I don’t deserve to live.” Tears streaked down his face. </p><p>Yassen took his chin in hand. Alex could feel a sob starting to seize his chest. </p><p>“Alex,” Yassen said. “I’m only going to do this one more time. Stop thinking.” </p><p>And Alex did.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The Febuwhump Day 1 prompt: Mind Control. </p><p>*cuddles Alex post-whumpening* It physically hurt not to write a HEA. Thank you for reading and I would love to know what you think in the comments!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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